


cheer squad

by wrenstars



Series: sumitaba week 2020 [3]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenstars/pseuds/wrenstars
Summary: no matter how big or small the event is, they're each other's pro cheer squad.for sumitaba week, day three: video games/gymnastics
Relationships: Sakura Futaba/Yoshizawa Sumire
Series: sumitaba week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873864
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	cheer squad

Sojiro stops in the doorway to Futaba’s room, takes one look, and raises his eyebrows so high that they almost meet his receeding hairline.

“Futaba,” he says flatly, “It’s nearly midnight. You _do_ remember that you need to be up early tomorrow, don’t you?” 

Futaba grins and gives him a thumbs-up from her position on the floor. Her thumb is coated in glitter, just like all objects in her room, but especially herself and the art explosion around her. Oh, and there’s a purple paint stain on her forearm. And there are paint splatters on the protective newspaper layer over her floor, and pencils that have rolled under her desk, and cutouts that are littered like forgotten confetti on her floor.

So much mess. Inari would be proud.

“Home base is under control, Sojiro!” she chirps.

A violet cutout she hadn’t realised had (somehow) ended up stuck to her cheek falls to the floor. Sojiro’s eyes follow its path the entire way. 

“I sure hope so,” he grumbles, rubbing his forehead. 

Futaba folds her arms. “And _what_ , exactly, do you mean by that?” 

She’s barely able to suppress her grin. She doesn’t take his tone seriously in the slightest—she’s an excellent navi with ace detection skills. It takes no effort to discern the gruff fondness in his tone.

Sojiro shakes his head. “Nothing. It means nothing at all.”

He turns his head, presumably so he can mutter, “I just know what you’re like in the mornings,” under his breath without her hearing. Futaba rolls her eyes. It’s not a secret—she _does_ know what she’s like in the mornings, she’s present for every moment of it—but tomorrow is different. She has a reason, a motivation, to be awake and lively before 7 a.m.

It doesn’t matter that she feels half-dead for a solid half hour after she wakes up. For Sumire, she can push through even that energy-depleted state. 

Sojiro shrugs. “Well, it’s not my problem. Good luck with it.” He turns to leave, but pauses to watch her begin to glue the next flower to the sign. Something in his expression softens. “I’m sure it’ll make her day.”

Futaba smiles and looks back at the sign. Inari had helped her finalise the design, but she had generated all the ideas: violets and ribbons in the shape of Cendrillon’s golden hearts as the border; _STRIKE THEM DOWN, VIOLET_ written in cursive against a background of Ella’s white lilies and underlined by rapiers. In the corner is a crown, styled similarly to Violet’s mask.

It’s beautiful, it really is. She’ll have to buy Inari some jarariko when she next sees him as thanks; after all, Sumire deserves only the best. 

She’ll have to buy him some jarariko when she next sees him. Sumire deserves only the best. 

“Yeah,” Futaba says, blushing. “I hope it does.” 

* * *

Ryuji stretches in his uncomfortable, too-small venue seat. “Man, it sure is packed, huh?” he hums, gazing around. There’s hardly an open seat in the stadium. He rests a steady hand on Futaba’s shoulder. “How’re you holding up?”

A duo from a rival gymnastics club clamber down the stairs, chattering excitably and waving their arms about. One nearly overbalances and falls over Futaba; Futaba gasps and shies away instinctively, heart hammering in her chest. She passes it off with a hopefully-breezy-instead-of-shaky-and-consumed-by-fear laugh.

“Eh, this is a level three,” she says, shrugging. “I hacked into the security cameras the other day so I knew what the venue was gonna be like. The crowd is a bit of a horde but I’m managing!”

Ryuji gapes at her. “Dude,” he says, with a lot of meaning. “You’re gonna get caught one day.”

Futaba cackles and pokes his arm. “Maybe _you_ would, but not me! Not on my level!”

Ryuji rubs his forehead. “If you say so.” He turns to her, his expression melting into a different form of concern: he peers intently at her, squeezing her shoulder. “Just don’t push yourself today.”

Futaba nods. “Oh, yeah. Thanks.” She smooths out her sign, even as her leg bounces. 

The competition commences soon after. The gymnasts come out, one after another, ribbons twirling and feet light on the ground. Futaba applauds politely after each one—it’s undeniable the competitors are skilled, but all of them disappear from memory as soon as they bow. None of them grab her attention. Or maybe she’s simply biased. Futaba won’t deny that’s a high possibility.

Five performances pass in a blur of jumps and spins and sparkling leotards. The applause has just died down for the fifth when the announcer calls, finally, “Yoshizawa Sumire!”

Futaba’s on her feet before Sumire makes her appearance. She’s absolutel stunning, Futaba thinks, her applause momentarily lapsing in her awe. Her hair is pulled back into the usual bun, but her leotard is different: silver on the top half, reminiscent of armour plating, transitioning to dark blue on the bottom with loose frills, black swirls and sequins. A princess and her own knight, all at once. 

God, she’s so fucking incredible. 

Each step she takes is powerful, graceful. Futaba is already beaming. 

“Go, Sumire!” she yells, waving her sign.

Sumire looks up as she walks. It takes her all of five seconds to locate Futaba like she has a personal, built-in Futaba-beacon; a bright smile spreads across her face, never once breaking her stride or veering off course, before taking her position. Futaba clambers back onto her seat and shakes her head. Incredible. She can barely text and walk without crashing into something. That’s a next-level skill she hopes to one day acquire. 

Sumire closes her eyes. The stadium falls deathly silent, like everyone’s holding their breath. Futaba grips her knees, fingers digging into her skin, her heart beating in her throat.

The music starts. Sumire opens her eyes, and begins.

She’s a polished knight in the middle of battle and a gentle princess listening to her kingdom, all at once. Each move is driven, intentional, but executed with grace and lightness, like water cascading down a waterfall: terrifying in its strength, but picturesque in its beauty.

Futaba’s mouth falls open, but otherwise she remains still. She’s but a lone swimmer caught in Sumire’s tide, sending her falling over the edge: her performance has pulled her in, and all she can do is ride it out. It’s breathtaking. 

Princess and knight.

She fits both roles perfectly. 

The music finishes on a crescendo, and Sumire instantly stops with it, her final pose a princess’s curtsey. Futaba jumps up and yells, the sound coming from the bottom of her lungs and ripping through her throat, as the rest of the audience breaks out into thunderous applause. Tears prick Futaba’s eyes as she watches Sumire take in the crowd’s response with wide, awestruck eyes, her shoulders heaving with the effort. 

“That’s my girlfriend!” she screams. She bounces on her feet and tugs on Ryuji’s sleeve.. “Ryuji! Ryuji! That’s her! That’s my fucking _girlfriend_! Isn’t she incredible?” 

Ryuji laughs. “She’s pretty impressive.”

“ _Pretty impressive_?” Futaba repeats incredulously. No, no, that won’t do at all. She grips Ryuji’s shoulder and jabs her finger in Sumire’s direction. “I shall hear no such slander. She’s max level, Ryuji! Max stats! She fucking killed it out there! Everyone now knows that _my girlfriend_ is the final boss!”

She waves again at Sumire, jumping and waving her sign. Sumire beams and waves back fully, stars shining in her eyes.

* * *

No one is surprised when Sumire wins gold. In fact, judging from the crowd’s thunderous applause and from-the-bottom-of-the-lungs cheers, Futaba believes that they’d all be offended if the medal was given to anyone else.

They’re all correct, of course. Futaba would’ve been incredibly offended if they hadn’t realised her girlfriend’s skill and capability.

Sumire looks like a princess, certified gymnastics royalty: she stands tall, regal and proud with her shoulders pulled back and her chin held high. She steps gracefully onto the podium despite how exhausted she must be and waves vigorously to the crowd, her wide smile never once slipping. She laughs when she’s interviewed and responds with such overwhelming genuine passion and enthusiasm that every person in the stadium becomes hooked on her words.

Futaba bounces on her toes. This is _exactly_ what Sumire deserves, and she can’t wait to further boast about how incredible her girlfriend is. 

“And I have to thank my pro cheer squad for being here,” Sumire finishes. For the first time since she stepped out to perform, her perfect composure wavers: her smile crosses the boundary between joyful to bashful, and she looks almost shuly in Futaba’s direction. She clears her throat, slightly shifting her weight. “Their support means more to me than I could ever hope to articulate. I hope they know how much I truly love and appreciate them.” 

Her voice drops in volume, but the microphone picks up every word. Futaba slides a little further down her seat as several pairs of eyes turn their way, an action that Ryuji notices. He adjusts his slouched posture to something more upright, grinning and waving, amplifying his energy like a champ. 

In his shadow, Futaba makes direct eye contact with Sumire and lifts her sign, her cheeks flushed and her heart fluttering in her chest. Sumire squints and leans forward, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look—and then she gasps, her lips rounding into a soft o and she’s smiling, she’s smiling so broadly and she’s hugging her flowers to her chest, and there’s a hand over her mouth and her shoulders shake with her tears. 

Futaba ignores Ryuji’s knowing elbow to her ribs and smiles right back. She feels so giddy that she may as well be sharing Sumire’s victory with her.

A perfect result. 

Mission complete.

* * *

“Yes! Yes yes yes you almost have him! Yes! Come on, you can do it, I believe in you!”

Sumire’s cheers bounce off Futaba’s walls. Futaba grits her teeth and leans forward, teetering on the edge of her seat. She heart pounds in her ears and her thumbs ache from the force she uses to smash button after button after button, performing endless amounts of combos. 

“C’mon c’mon c’mon _C’MON_!” she yells, as her Paintling grabs the floating item. She jumps to her feet, eyes wide and frenzied. “YES!”

Futaba tightens her grip on the controller and presses her favourite Paintling attack combo. Her last-standing opponent, Mink, is catapulted from the stage and vanishes with the speed and intensity of a shooting star, never to be seen again.

“GAME!” the announcer booms. Sumire applauds enthusiastically as Futaba drops back into her seat with a long, agonised groan. She sends her girlfriend a tired smile when Paintling stands at the forefront of the screen, crowned the round’s Super Smash Bros champion.

“That was more trouble than it was worth,” she huffs, and again enters the search for another match. She wipes a hand over her forehead and pulls a face when it comes away damp with sweat. “Ugh. _Definitely_ too much trouble. That Mink was a menace.”

“A little sweat’s nothing,” Sumire says lightly, “It shows that you worked hard.” She squeezes Futaba’s arm. “Congratulations on your victory.”

She’s so _sincere_ about it. 

“What’re you so excited about?” Futaba laughs. The game connects her to another match; she accepts and gravitates towards Paintling once more. “These are regular matches—they’re not even defeated-the-first-boss level achievements, especially compared to your competitions. These happen every day.”

The match fills up, all characters are selected. Sumire hums and leans over, kissing Futaba’s cheek. “Maybe I just enjoy being _your_ pro cheer squad. Did you consider that?”

Futaba’s entire body, from her cheeks to the tips of her toes, turns bright red. 

“God, you can’t just _say_ things like that,” she groans. She puts her controller down, pulls Sumire closer and kisses her hard on the mouth.

The match starts. Paintling gets booted off the stage without either of them noticing.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [twitter!!](https://twitter.com/agicelestines)!!


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